fc;|Ff/iJ!: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


THISTLE-DRIFT 


JOHN     VANCE     CHENEY 

SECOND    EDITION 

All  his  rosy  body  bare 

Ah  I  the  Merry  Rover ' s  there 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK   A.    STOKES    &    BROTHER 

MDCCCLX  XXVIII 


Copyright,  1887, 
By  Frederick  A.  Stokes. 


TO    ABBEY 


274455 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Love 's  ever  at  Love's  Side                       ,        .  I 

And  Who  is  She  ? 3 

Eden 5 

Love's  Envoys 7 

Whither?           ....        ...  9 

The  Way  of  Life 10 

What  of  the  Hereafter  ? II 

Thought-fall .12 

What  the  Muse  is  Like 13 

The  Message            14 

Hunter's  Song 16 

Ho,  all  Lovers 18 

Young  Love  is  Lord                                           ,  19 

Spring  Song 21 

Loves  of  Leaves  and  Grasses  ....  22 

Song  of  the  Gloaming       .....  24 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Summer  Rain           ......  26 

The  Going  of  Autumn,  1 27 

II 28 

Snowflakes 29 

The  Weasel  Thieves 31 

To  Youngsters 32 

She  Knows 34 

Wounded  Birdlings 36 

sTheWayofIt 38 

Ere  Winter  Weather  .        .        .        .40 

Swallow  and  Fairy  .        .        .  .41 

The  Merry  Rover     ......  42 

The  Heart  Trap 45 

The  Happy  Captive 47 

My  Lady 48 

Only  too  True          ......  49 

Margery            .        .        .        .  r  ,  .        .  51 

Dodging  the  Godlet 53 

Your  Dimpled  Dear 55 

Luella       .                57 

Nature  to  the  Poet  ......  60 

What  Say? 63 


CONTENTS. 


The  Wise  Piper 64 

The  Informal  Courtier 66 

You,  too 68 

To  a  Tip-up 69 

To  Tree-Crickets,   1 70 

II .71 

Birthday  Flowers 73 

The  Lost  Song 75 

The  Song  Unsung 77 

At  the  Hearthside     .                         ...  79 

After  the  Cows 81 

The  Kitchen  Clock 83 

Collie  Kelso 87 

Grannam  and  Blue  Eyes           ....  89 

The  Widow's  Comfort 91 

SONNETS : 

I.  Music        ...  93 

II.  Grown  Old  with  Nature    ...  94 

III.  The  Skilful  Listener           ...  95 

IV.  Dreams 96 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Parting  of  Ilmar  and  Haadin  .        .      97 

Liolan       .  ......     101 


NATURE : 

I.  The  Music  of  Nature       .        .        .105 
II.  In  Primeval  Wood  .        .        .106 

III.  The  Old  Tree 107 

IV.  The  Beeches  brighten  Early  May    .     loS 
s  V.  Summer  Noon          .  109 

VI.  To  a  Humming-bird        .  .  .no 

VII.  Monarch  of  the  North      .  .  .     112 

VIII.  Abreast  with  Old  Storm  .  .  .113 

IX.  Sunrise  in  the  Forest       .  .  .115 

X.  Evening  Clouds       .        .  .  .117 

EVENING  SONGS: 

XI.  It  is  that  pale,  delaying  hour  .        .  118 

XII.  A  light  lies  here,  a  shadow  there     .  118 

XIII.  Now  is  Light 119 

XIV.  Behind  the  hill  top  drops  the  sun    .  120 
XV.  Yon  ragged  Cliff  looks  gentler  down  121 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I  've  seen  the  Sun  on  the  hill  top,  there    ,        .  122 

Strive  on,  doomed  Soul    .....  123 

The  Black  Dawn 124 

I  need  not  hear  each  night-wind  loud       .        .  125 

To  Hope 126 

To  the  Fall  Wind 127 

One 128 

TO  ALICE  : 

I.  One  lived  whose  wont  it  was     .        .129 
II.  Joy,  bringing  roses,  found  thee         .     130 

III.  When  Death  approached  thee  Alice    131 

IV,  Mournful  Voice  haunting  the  quiet 

air 132 

V.  The  Years  are  seven          .        .        .133 
VI.  4  Not  her, '  cried  Life          .        .        .134 

Song  of  the  Sleepers 135 


LOVE  'S  EVER  AT  LOVE'S  SIDE. 

T    OVE,  you  are  in  the  hills, 

And  I  am  by  the  sea ; 
But,  ah,  I  know  my  loved  one  thrills 
With  touch  of  love  and  me ! 
No  need  to  tell  her  why  ; 
Where  she  is,  there  am  I. 
Whether 
Together 
Or  apart, 
I  fold  you,  Love, 
I  hold  you,  Love, 

Hard  to  my  heart. 

Love  !  Love !    Its  tears  and  smiles 
Wing  wide  as  sun  and  rain  ; 
It  reckons  not  the  hours  or  miles 
For  gift  of  joy  or  pain  : 


LOVE  *S  EVER  A  T  LOVE'S  SIDE. 

Love,  you  can  have  no  thought 
My  heart  shall  answer  not. 
Whether 
Together 
Or  apart, 
I  fold  you,  Love, 
I  hold  you,  Love, 
Hard  to  my  heart. 

Love,  you  are  far  away, 
But  naught  my  heart  shall  care ; 
This  place  or  that,  go  you  or  stay, 
Where  you  are — I  am  there  : 
In  spite  of  time  or  tide, 
Love 's  ever  at  love's  side. 
Whether 
Together 
Or  apart, 
I  fold  you,  Love, 
I  hold  you,  Love, 

Hard  to  my  heart. 


AND  WHO  IS  SHE? 

O  HE  lives,  she  lives  up  in  the  hills 

Where  mists  and  eagles  are, 
Blithe  shepherdess  of  rocks  and  rills, 
'Twixt  mortal  and  a  star. 

So  light  no  fairy  foots  it  there, 
With  moonbeams  on  the  green  ; 

You  'd  swear  her  wee  feet  walk  the  air, 
The  hills  and  clouds  between. 

Of  acorns  is  her  necklace  made, 
And  reddest  berries  found  ; 

While  slender  vines,  in  glossy  braid, 
Around  her  brow  are  bound. 

And  who  is  she  ?    Ah,  by  and  by, 
A-coming  in  her  grace, 


AND  WHO  IS  SHE? 


My  airy  fair,  so  light  and  shy — 
They  '11  see,  they  '11  see  her  face  ! 

Ah,  by  and  by,  she  '11  quit  the  hills, 
Where  mists  and  eagles  are, 

This  shepherdess  of  rocks  and  rills, 
'Twixt  mortal  and  a  star. 


EDEN. 

T?  ASTWARD  love's  garden  lay. 

In  Eden,  long  agone ; 
Eastward,  lo,  it  lies  to-day, 
Before  the  gates  of  dawn. 

It  rests  as  still  and  fair 
As  the  first  lovers  found  It ; 

And  the  flowers  are  blooming  there, 
The  waters  winding  round  it. 

The  crystal  fountains  fill, 

The  golden  glories  play, 
And  the  silver  dews  distill, 

As  on  love's  natal  day. 

Love's  garden  yonder  is 
Aglow  with  love's  desire  ; 


EDEN. 

Thrilled  by  endless  melodies 
From  love's  own  throats  of  fire. 

Love's  bower ! — I  know  it  well, 
And  thither  lies  my  way  ; 

On  my  soul  I  feel  the  spell, 
I  see  the  splendors  play. 

Lo,  one  awaits  me  there, 
Wondrous  as  Adam  knew  ; 

Face  and  form  as  strangely  fair, 
And  throbbing  heart  as  true. 


LOVE'S  ENVOYS. 


/^\NE  ember  star  reddens  afar, 

In  ashes  of  the  day  ; 
Love's  envoys  on  their  journey  are 
To  her  that 's  far  away. 


The  slow  hours  with  their  burden  sweet,- 
First  fragrance  of  the  year, — 

Freely  they  '11  shed  it  jrt  the  feet 
Of  her  my  heart  holds  dear. 

The  voices  of  the  cedarn  boughs, 
The  soul-voice  of  the  pine, — 

They  will  but  breathe  the  lover's  vows, 
Their  passion  will  be  mine. 


LOVE'S  ENVOYS. 


The  brook,  whose  true-love  murmuring 

Can  know  no  other  shore, 
Will  plead  for  him  that  sweet  would  sing, 

Beside  her  evermore. 


WHITHER? 


TT  THITHER  leads  this  pathway,  little  one?— 
Good  sir,  I  think  it  runs  just  on  and  on. 


Whither  leads  this  pathway,  maiden  fair  ? — 
That  path  to  town,  sir ;  to  the  village  square. 

Whither  leads  this  pathway,  father  old  ?— 
Where  but  to  yonder  marbles  white  and  cold  ! 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE. 

'  I  "HE  warrior  frowned  and  pressed  his  temples 

gray; 
11  Enough,"  he  cried,  "  away  with  love— away  !" 

A  boy  from  play  by  fondest  kiss  beguiled, 

"  Mother,  I'll  love  thee  ever  ! "  spake  the  child. 

A  maiden  gazed  into  the  night  sky  wide, 

"  O I  will  love  him  when  he  comes ! "  she  sighed. 

The  three  moved  on  along  the  way  of  life  : 
A  fair  face  lured  the  soldier  from  his  strife, 

Upon  a  tomb  was  carved  the  sweet  child's  name, 
The  lover  to  the  maiden  never  came. 


WHAT  OF  THE   HEREAFTER? 

F>  RIEF  the  stay  of  Sorrow, 

To-day  come,  gone  to-morrow  ; 
Unwont  fair  Joy  to  bide 
From  morning  until  eventide. 

Glories  all  are  shifting, 
Darkness  is  ever  lifting : 
The  sun  gives  way  to  shade, 
Returns  anon — the  shadows  fade. 

What  of  the  Hereafter : 
Will  mourning  follow  laughter  ? 
Heaven's  stars  roll  through  our  night, 
Will  earth-gloom  veil  the  Hills  of  Light? 


THOUGHT-FALL. 

TTf  THEN  south-winds  are  richest  with  fragrance 

of  flowers, 
And  the  still    sweeter   breath  of   the  deep-forest 

bowers, 

When  the  hill  and  the  star  have  gone  under  cover, 
To  the  dwelling  of  dreams,  like  loved  one  and  lover ; 

When  passionate  earth  has  her  will  with  the  sky, 
And  the  black  clouds  stop  tho'  the  brooks  go  by, — 

There 's  a  falling  of  thought,  like  the  fall  of  the  rain. 
And  the  music  of  youth  is  playing  again. 


WHAT  THE  MUSE  IS  LIKE. 

T    IKE  the  love-bringing  wind  when  it  goes 
To  the  deep-crimson  heart  of  the  rose, 
Like  the  beauty  that,  languishing,  lies 
In  the  arms  of  the  day  when  he  dies, 
Like  mist  at  the  morning's  feet, 
Distant  music,  transcendently  sweet, — 
Like  these  is  the  muse,  but  warier  far, 
And  hers  the  uncertainest  lovers  that  are. 


THE  MESSAGE. 

T  F  only  my  breast  had  a  window, 

And  you,  Love,  could  look  in  to-day  \ 
Tis  filled  with  golden  gladness 
Too  bright  for  tongue  to  say. 
But  the  birds  in  the  air — they  sing  it, 
Winging  world  over,  they  ring  it,  they  ring  it ; 
The  bees  in  the  blossom-bell — 
They  tell,  they  tell. 

If  only  my  breast  had  a  window, 
And  my  heart  could  fly  out  to-day, 

'Twould  bear  you,  Love,  a  message 
Too  sweet  for  tongue  to  say  ! 

But  the  birds  of  the  air— they  '11  sing  it, 

Winging  world  over,  will  ring  it,  will  ring  it ; 


THS  MESSAGE. 


And  bees  in  the  blossom-bell — 
They '11  tell,  they  11  tell. 

Can,  can  the  bird  tell,  my  beloved. 

The  bee,  can  he  tell  It  true  ; 
Can  sweetest  voice  of  summer 

Speak  for  me,  Love,  to  you  ? 

0  my  heart,  it  is  running  over  ! 

Come  to  me  quickly,  my  Lover— -my  Lover ; 

1  love  only  love  can  tell 
How  well — how  well ! 


HUNTER'S   SONG. 

TT  THEN  the  knowing  robins  build, 

With  love  calls,  all  the  day, 
Then  you'll  hear  a  ditty  trilled— 
Ho,  Jenny 's  calling,  hie  away  ! 

Hark !  with  rifle  hanging  high, 
The  ramping  dogs  chained  home, 

Now,  my  cabin,  now,  good  by, 
It 's  ho,  my  Jenny,  girl,  I  come  ! — 

Mighty  shy,  your  maiden's  love, 
Enough  the  faintest  sound  : 

For  every  stream  that  runs  above, 
A  thousand  trickle  underground. 


HUNTER'S  SONG. 


First  I  '11  wound  her — shame,  the  crime  ! 

Hang  low,  you  pretty  head  : 
Jenny,  girl,  the  sweet  wild  thyme 

Is  sweeter  for  the  hunter's  tread. 


HO,  ALL  LOVERS. 

T  T  7HEN  over  field  the  grasses  start, 

Time  !    Let  laggard  lad  be  ready ; 
Then  winter  melts  in  the  maiden  breast— 
Away,  away  to  milady  ! 

When  robin  'gins  his  roundelay, 
And  the  south  wind  comes  a-wooing, 

Then  to  it,  Romeo,  while  you  may  ; 
Hey,  be  up  and  doing ! 

When  sap  goes  top,  and  willows  tip, 
Then  it  is  your  wooer's  weather : 

Let  each  go  sip  at  his  Honey-lip, 
Ho,  all  lovers — together ! 


YOUNG  LOVE  IS  LORD. 

TT  is  the  fairies'  time  o'  year, 

Grim  winter 's  over,  they  are  here ; 
Their  finger-tips  the  alders  tinge, 
Rimming  the  runs  with  frailest  fringe, 
While  willows,  from  their  slumber  shaken, 
In  leafy  fountains  playing,  waken. 

It  te  the  fairies'  time  o'  year, 
The  skies  recede  and  mountains  near ; 
Each  shadow  startles,  as  It  passes, 
The  little  peeping,  wondering  grasses ; 
The  fays  are  busy  :  brown  and  gray, 
Behold— they  're  spirited  away  ! 

Young  Love  is  lord  o'  earth  and  air. 
And  round  him  throng  his  brave  and  fair : 


YOUNG  LOVE  IS  LORD. 


A  quickening  touch,  a  vital  thrill, 
Links  field  to  field,  and  hill  to  hill ; 
With  downward  look,  th*  impassioned  hours 
Call  softly  to  the  coming  fiow'rs. 


SPRING  SONG. 

T  NVISIBLE  hands  from  summer  lands 
Have  plucked  the  icicles,  one  by  one  ; 
And  sly  little  fingers,  reached  down  from  the  sun, 
Lay  hold  on  the  tips  of  the  grass  in  the  sands. 
And  O,  and  O 
Where  is  the  snow ! 
The  crow  is  calling, 
Showers  are  falling. 

Up,  up  and  out  of  your  garments  gray, 
Ho,  willow  and  weed,  each  secret  seed ; 
The  music  of  waters  is  heard  in  the  mead, 
And  surly  old  Winter  has  hied  him  away  1 
And  O,  and  O 
Where  Is  the  snow ! 
The  snake  is  crawling, 
Showers  are  falling. 


LOVES  OF  LEAVES  AND  GRASSES. 

n^HE  little  leaves,  ah  me, 

Coquetting  in  the  tree  ! 
Swaying  in  the  sunny  weather, 
Now,  they  steal  together, 
Now,  flutter  free,  as  fain 
Never  to  kiss  again. 

Yon  grass — there,  too,  I  see 
Suspicious  gallantry : 
Each  spear  unto  his  sweeting 
Whispers  a  secret  greeting, 
Then  primly,  in  the  sun, 
Smiles  over  what  he 's  done. 


LOVES  OF  LEAVES  AND  GRASSES. 

Sweet  spring-time  in  the  tree, 
In  fields  where  grasses  be  ! 
So  perfect  is  his  vesture, 
So  pretty  every  gesture, 
I  ween  no  leaf  or  blade 
But  wins  his  dainty  maid. 


SONG  OF  THE  GLOAMING. 

HPHE  toad  has  the  road,  the  cricket  sings, 
The  heavy  beetle  spreads  her  wings  -. 
The  bat  is  the  rover, 
No  bee  on  the  clover, 
The  day  is  over, 
And  evening  come. 


The  brake  is  awake,  the  grass  aglow, 
The  star  above,  the  fly  below': " 

The  bat  is  the  rover, 

No  bee  on  the  clover, 

The  day  is  over, 

And  evening  come. 


SONG  OF  THE  GLOAMING. 


The  stream  moves  in  dream,  the  low  winds  tune, 
"Tis  vespers  at  the  shrine  of  June : 

The  bat  is  the  rover, 

No  bee  on  the  clover, 

The  day  is  over, 

And  evening  come. 


SUMMER  RAIN. 

TJ*IRSTLINGS  of  the  summer  rain, 

Tapping  at  my  window-pane, 
Welcome,  little  hearts  of  air, 
Beating,  beating,  beating  there. 

Nay,  look  not  so  timid  through, 
Sure,  the  world  'a  at  home  to  you : 
Every  lily,  every  rose, 
Well  your  gentle  knocking  knows.— 

Open,  rose  and  lily  cup, 
Fill  each  passioned  chalice  up ; 
Sweetly  lovers  from  the  sky 
On  the  breasts  of  blossoms  lie. 


THE  GOING  OF  AUTUMN. 


"OLEAK  the  storm-mottled  rock,  and  brittle  the 

brake, 
Plump-cropt  is  the  cock,  and  denned  is  the  snake ; 


Newly  furred  is  the  hare,  the  marmot 's  abed, 
Asleep  is  the  bear,  the  lizard  as  dead ; 

There 's  a  howl  on  the  hill,  a  moan  on  the  plain, 
A  film  on  the  rill,  a  flake  on  the  rain  ; 

There  is  death  in  the  day,  a  treacherous  sun, 
A  season  grown  gray — an  Autumn  undone. 


THE  GOING  OF  A  UTUMN. 


II. 

Autumn  passes— she  takes,  to-day, 
Her  bleak  and  solitary  way  : 
Old  ocean  feels  it,  on  the  sand 
Reaching,  reaching  a  parting  hand. 

As  sings  that  bird  where  no  eye  sees, 
Half -fearing  its  own  melodies, 
The  brook,  slow  northward  toward  the  snows, 
Bubbling  his  little  trouble,  goes. 

In  naked  woodlands  of  the  vale, 
A  thousand  voices  utter  wail ; 
Far  on  the  mountain,  high  and  bare, 
A  thousand  voices  answer  there. 

Lorn  branches  beckon,  strained  in  space, 
Death-pale  the  field's  beseeching  face  ; 
Shrunk  fruits  drop  sudden  to  the  ground — 
A  gray  shape  waits  on  yonder  mound. 


SNOWFLAKES. 

T^ALLING  all  the  night-time, 

Falling  all  the  day, 
Silent  into  silence, 
From  the  far-away, — 

Never  came  like  glory 

To  the  April  leas, 
Never  summer  blossoms 

Thick  and  white  as  these. 

Falling  all  the  night-time, 

Falling  all  the  day, 
Stilly  as  the  spirits 

Come  from  far  away, — 


SNOWFLAKES. 


Snowflakes,  winged  snowflakes, 
Fancy,  following,  sees 

Souls  of  flowers  flutt'ring 
Over  winter  leas. 


SONG. 

nnHE  weasel  thieves  in  silver  suit, 

The  rabbit  runs  in  gray  ; 
And  Pan  takes  up  his  frosty  flute 
To  pipe  the  cold  away. 

The  flocks  are  folded,  boughs  are  barev 

The  salmon  take  the  sea ; 
And  O  my  fair,  would  I  somewhere 

Might  house  my  heart  with  thee  ! 


TO  YOUNGSTERS. 

/^  OLDEN  hair  and  eyes  of  blue—- 
What won't  they  do,  what  won't  they  do  ? 
Eyes  of  blue  and  locks  of  gold — 
My  boy,  you  '11  learn  before  you  're  old. 
The  gaitered  foot,  the  taper  waist — 
Be  not  in  haste,  be  not  in  haste  ; 
Before  your  chin  grows  twenty  spear, 
My  word  for 't,  youngster,  they  '11  appear. 

Raven  hair  and  eyes  of  night 

Undo  the  boys  (it  serves  'em  right) ; 

Eyes  of  night  and  raven  hair — 

They  '11  drive  you,  Hopeful,  to  despair. 

The  drooping  curl,  the  downward  glance — 

They  're  only  waiting  for  the  chance  ; 


TO   YOUNGSTERS. 


They  've  never  failed  this  thousand  year, 
At  nick  of  time  they  '11  sure  appear. 

Shapely  hands  and  arms  of  snow — 
There 's  nothing  like  them  here  below  ; 
Flexile  wrists  and  fleckless  hands — 
The  lass  that  has  them  understands. 
The  cheeks  that  blush,  the  lips  that  smile — 
A  little  while,  a  little  while — 
Tease  out  the  sprouts,  sir,  never  fear, 
Before  you  know  it  they  '11  be  here. 

Hands,  and  hair,  and  lips,  and  eyes — 
In  these  the  tyro's  danger  lies. 
You  '11  meet  them  leagued,  or  one  by  one  ; 
In  either  case  the  mischief's  done. 
A  touch,  a  tress,  a  glance,  a  sigh, 
And  then,  my  boy,  good  by — good  by  ! 
God  help  you,  youngster  !  keep  good  cheer  ; 
Coax  on  your  chin  to  twenty  spear. 


SHE  KNOWS. 

•\TC7HY  this  sighing 

Of  a  summer  night ; 

All  this  lonely  smoking, 
Somewhere  out  of  sight, 

This  rhyming  to  a  withered  rose  ? 
The  cruellest  of  creatures 
With  crazing  form  and  features — 

She  knows,  she  knows. 

Who  has  done  it  ? 

Who  has  tamed  the  town  ; 
Got  each  dude  and  yokel 

On  his  marrows  down  ? 
Who  rules  and  fools  the  village  beaux  ? 


SHE   KNOWS. 


A  little  dimpled  elf, 
Exceeding  safe,  herself — 
She  knows,  she  knows. 

By  and  by,  what ; 

(She  has  asked  it,  too) 
Old  devices  failing, 

Then  what  will  she  do  ? 
She  '11  find  the  strings — bring  on  the  beaux : 

The  little  angel  sinner — 

The  very  mischief 's  in  her — 
She  knows,  she  knows. 


WOUNDED  BIRDLINGS. 

TTOW  is  it,  little  lady  mine, 

That  you  in  silence  sit  and  pine  ? 
Well  in  your  teens,  and  have  not  heard 
How  worthless  is  a  youngster's  word  ! 
Why,  if  he  'd  meant  it,  kept  it  true, 
It  had  been  worse  for  both  of  you, 

Aha,  my  stripling,  sighing  there, 

And  staring  into  empty  air, 

The  rustle  of  a  rustic  gown 

Will  trap  a  fellow  fresh  from  town  ! 

Up,  sir,  for  shame  !  let  folly  go, 

And  thank  your  stars  she  served  you  so. 


WOUNDED  BIRDLINGS. 


Fall  to,  fall  to,  my  pretty  doves  ; 
Pin-feather  fancies,  callow  loves—- 
My wounded  birdlings,  they  remain 
No  more  than  rainbows  after  rain  : 
The  soundest  hearts  at  twenties  two, 
Your  Cupid 's  riddled  through  and  through. 


274455 


THE  WAY  OF  IT. 

npHE  wind  is  awake,  little  leaves,  little  leaves, 

Heed  not  what  he  says  —  he  deceives,  he  de- 

ceives : 

Over  and  over 
To  the  lowly  clover 

He  has  lisped  the  same  love  (and  forgotten  it,  too) 
That  he  '11  soon  be  lisping  and  pledging  to  you. 


The  boy  is  abroad,  dainty  maid,  dainty  maid, 
Beware  his  soft  words  —  I  'm  afraid,  i  'm  afraid  : 

He  's  said  them  before 

Times  many  a  score, 
Ay,  he  died  for  a  dozen,  ere  his  beard 

through, 
As  he'll  soon  be  dying,  my  pretty,  for  you, 


THE    WA  Y  OF  IT. 


The  way  of  the  boy  is  the  way  of  the  wind, 
As  light  as  the  leaves  is  dainty  maid-kind  : 

One  to  deceive 

And  one  to  believe — 
That  is  the  way  of  it,  year  to  year, 
But  I  know  you  will  learn  it  too  late,  my  dear. 


ERE  WINTER  WEATHER. 

A  LL  busy  in  the  summer  weather, 

Two  birds  will  build  a  nest  together  ; 
Will  make  it  cosy,  soft,  and  warm, 
Safe  from  prowlers  and  the  storm. 

So,  Fancy  fair  and  Love,  between  'em, 
May  make  a  greenwood  home  to  screen  'em  ; 
With  little  twigs  and  odds  of  thread 
Snug  may  put  the  heart  to  bed. 

But  young  birds  fly  ere  winter  weather, 
While  hearts  would  stick  it  out  together  : 
A  frost,  a  norther,  ice,  and  snow — 
Pretties,  will  you  heed  me  ?    No. 


SWALLOW  AND  FAIRY. 

A  LL  the  summer  will  a  swallow 

Flit  yon  eavc-ncst  out  and  in  ; 
Day  and  day  together, 
Twitt'ring  in  the  sunny  weather, 
Flits  she  out  and  in  : 
But  when  the  air  gets  sharp  and  thin, 
And  her  ways  the  snowflakes  follow, 
Where 's  the  swallow — where 's  the  swallow  ? 

So,  Love's  castle  has  a  fairy, 

Tripping,  tripping,  out  and  in  ; 
Day  and  day  together, 
Singing  in  the  sunny  weather, 

Trips  she  out  and  in  : 

But  when  the  sober  days  begin, 
Wolf  to  fight,  and  care  to  carry, 
Where 's  the  fairy — where 's  the  fairy  ? 


THE  MERRY  ROVER. 

TT  THEN  the  mists  are  thinning, 

And  the  day  beginning, 
Shyest  of  wild  grasses 
Whisper,  as  he  passes  ; 
Stillest  thickets  stir  and  sigh, 
As  he  skims  it  lightly  by  : 
Echoes  call  him,  over — over : 
All  know  the  Merry  Rover. 

Soon  as  the  birds  sing  roundelay, 
He 's  a-tripping  on  his  way  ; 
On  the  blossom-bank, 
Where  the  weeds  are  rank, 
And  the  thick  air  hot ; 
Where  the  winds  can  rifle  not, 


THE  MERRY  ROVER. 


And  the  wild  bee's  work  is  wrought ; 

Where  the  drowsy  hours  are  caught, 

And  held  in  twine 

Of  herbs  and  berry-vine — 

All  his  rosy  body  bare, 

Ah,  the  Merry  Rover 's  there. 

By  the  singing  meadow-brook, 
Loves  he  long  to  sit  and  look  ; 
On  his  hands  his  chin, 
Laughing,  leaning,  looking  in. 

Where  the  squirrels  frisk  and  banter, 

And  the  changing  rabbits  canter, 

As  the  leaves  begin  to  wither, 

Fall,  and  flutter  hither,  thither— 

There,  holding  his  rosy  sides  for  laughter, 

Runs  the  Merry  Rover  after. 

Where  the  old,  old  shadows  stay, 
All  the  night  and  all  the  day, 


THE  MERRY  ROVER. 


Where  the  fireflies  strike  their  spark, 
'Gainst  the  hardness  of  the  dark  ; 
Where  gray  silence,  close  beside  him, 
Helps  the  night  to  hide  him — 
There,  must  be,  till  peep  o*  sun, 
Is  his  happy  dreaming  done. 

By  and  by,  my  bonny  dear, 

Matters  not  what  time  o'  year, 

Matters  not  what  hour  o'  day — 

All  the  same  to  him, 

Sweet  Dimple-cheek,  sweet  Rosy-limb — 

He  'II  be  coming  up  your  way. 

He  will  tell  you  where  he 's  been, 

He  will  tell  you  what  he  's  seen, 

And  he  '11  tell  you  something  more, 

Which  you  '11  never  have  heard  before. 

Ask  me  not,  no,  ask  me  not, 
The  Merry  Rover — he  will  tell  : 
May  he  bring  you  happy  lot — 
He 's  a-coming,  fare  you  well ! 


THE  HEART  TRAP. 

S~~*  AILY  a  moth  is  flitting,  flitting, 

Around  my  candle  ;  (Heavens,  the  sin  !) 
Hours — hours  I  Ve  spent  here,  breathless  sitting, 
To  have  it  get  a  wee  bit  in. 

The  sweet,  sweet  bird  outside  my  window — 
Such  oft  in  durance  vile  have  died — 

I  might  forget  the  pains  I  've  been  to 
Would  it  but  stick  its  head  inside. 

My  moth,  my  bird,  on  airy  visit, 

A-flitting,  flitting,  here  and  yon  ! 
Nay,  neither  moth  nor  bird,  what  Is  It  ? — 

A  little  nearer,  nearer — gone  ! 


THE  HEART   TRAP. 


Ha,  here  's  my  heart  trap  ;  nice  I  '11  set  it, 
Put  love  bait !— hist !  'T  is  coming  now. 

In  ?  No — yes— t fore  !  I  knew  I  'd  get  it, 
I  knew  I  would  somehow,  somehow. 


THE  HAPPY  CAPTIVE. 

A    GOLDEN  cage,  I  've  heard, 
Is  just  as  cruel  to  the  bird ; 
But  I,  in  close  of  golden  hair, 
Am  happy  captive  there. 

One  dread  is  mine,  but  one  ; 
A  finger-lift  and — I  'm  undone. 
Dear  golden  bars,  bend  hard  about ; 
Oh,  should  she  let  me  out ! 


MY   LADY. 

O HE'LL  not  rely  upon  her  dress, 
To  fabrics  trust  attractiveness  ; 
A  native  elegance  will  be 
First  sponsor  for  her  quality. 

Frail  charms  she  will  not  lean  upon, 
Fading  to-day,  to-morrow  gone  ; 
The  fountains  of  inherent  grace 
Will  well  supply  both  form  and  face. 

Yes,  I  shall  know  her  by  her  mien, 
My  some-day  sovereign,  my  queen  : 
Does  she  in  me  true  subject  see, 
Straight  queen  and  liegeman  we  will  be. 


ONLY  TOO  TRUE. 

TV  T  O  blushing  daughter  of  the  morn 

Can  vie  with  her  of  woman  born  ; 
No  face  at  Windows  of  the  spring 
Is  like  a  virgin's  blossoming. 

Betwixt  the  blue  lids  of  the  sky — 
No  orb,  there,  mates  a  maiden's  eye  ; 
Not  mighty  Mars'  unfailing  lance 
Can  match  the  mischief  of  its  glance. 

Nature,  how  weak  art  thou  to  harm 
As  does  a  dear  unsleeved  arm  ! 
Thy  rocks  would  trickle  into  sand 
With  tingles  from  a  dimpled  hand. 


ONLY  TOO  TRUE. 


What  swaying  shapes  of  sun  or  shade 
Approach  the  motions  of  a  maid  ? 
What  snowy  curve  by  winter  traced, 
Can  take  the  taper  of  her  waist  ? 

And  that  soft  darkness  of  her  hair, 
Thy  twilight  shades — ah,  their  despair 
Not  all  the  striving  stars  beguile 
As  may  one  memory  of  her  smile. 

That  foolish  lips  should  speak  so  wise, 
Makes  merriment  from  earth  to  skies. 
Nay,  Nature,  drop  a  dewy  tear 
For  solemn  knowledge  bought  so  dear. 


MARGERY. 

'  I  "ELL  you  every  feature 

Of  so  sweet  a  creature  ! 
What  a  fool  I  'd  be 
To  wake  the  whole  world  up  to  see 
Pretty   pretty  Margery  ! 

Blue  eyes  full  of  twinkles, 
Hair  in  cutest  kr inkles, 
Dimples — Cautiously  ! 
I  fear  that  you  begin  to  see 
Little  witching  Margery. 

Well,  then,  tell  me  whether 
Two  rosebuds  together 

Could  shape  lips  di-v 

But  that  is  making  much  too  free 
With  the  charms  of  Margery. 


MARGERY. 


Something  of  a  notion 
Of  her  brooky  motion, 

That  were  safe  :  her  fee 

No,  no  ;  another  word,  ah  me 
And  the  end  of  Margery  ! 

Such  a  throat !  thereunder, 
Why,  the  gods  would  wonder 

As  they  gazed  :  a  b 

Bless  me,  stop  there,  decidedly  ; 
How  she  'd  blush,  would  Margery  ! 


DODGING  THE  GODLET. 

"D  ESTRING  your  golden  bow, 

The  silver  quiver  fill ; 
You  '11  hit  too  high,  too  low, 
Young  Rosy-cheeks — you  will. 

Look  to  your  darts,  my  lad, 
That  dimpled  arm  prepare 

Such  mark  was  never  had 
Since  arrow  sped  the  air. 

Your  ringlets  backward  toss, 
The  silky  wings  lift  free : — 

Heaven,  let  no  shadow  cross 
That  shoulder's  ivory  !— 


DODGING  TPIE  GODLET. 


A  very  blind  man's  shot ! 

One  side,  too  high,  too  low, 
Too  something— matters  not. 

She  laughs  :  I  told  you  so. 

Once  more  ;  down  on  your  knee. — 
How  warm  his  pink  heels  show, 

Shell  colors  tremblingly 
Thro'  all  his  body  glow  ! — 

Once  more,  mine  armed  elf — 
Missed  it !    Go,  godlet,  go. 

She  '11  dodge  old  Death  himself ; 
Put  up  the  golden  bow. 


YOUR   DIMPLED  DEAR. 

O  HE 'S  not  for  thought,  your  dimpled  dear, 

Philosophy  is  not  her  forte  ; 
But  then,  to  corner  her — I  fear 

You  '11  find  it  solemn  sport. 
I  've  learned  by  search  somewhat  severe, 
That  she 's  extremely  queer — 
Your  dimpled  dear. 

She 's  ignorant,  your  dimpled  dear, 
Of  Huxley,  Lubbock,  and  all  such  ; 

But  I  shall  be  upon  my  bier 
Before  I  know  as  much. 

Her  grandam  didn't,  at  ninety  year. 

She  is  extremely  queer — 

Your  dimpled  dear. 

She 's  tender,  is  your  dimpled  dear, 
The  very  sweetest  thing  to  rhyme  ; 


YOUR  DIMPLED  DEAR. 


But  'tis  a  smile,  and  not  a  tear, 

At  others'  weeping-time. 
Her  sympathies  get  out  of  gear, 
She 's  so  extremely  queer — 
Your  dimpled  dear. 

She 's  lonely,  is  your  dimpled  dear, 
She  vows  her  dallying  is  done  ; 

But — take  my  word — it  will  appear 
That  you  are  not  the  one. 

Why,  she  out-veers  Miss  Vere  de  Vere, 

She 's  so  exceeding  queer — 

Your  dimpled  dear. 

She 's  plump  and  fair,  your  dimpled  dear, 
Young,  lonely,  lovely,  innocent, 

O,  will  some  Oedipus  make  cle'ar 
For  what  the  darling 's  meant, 

Some  Swedenborg  please  name  her  sphere, 

She 's  so  egregious  queer — 

Your  dimpled  dear  ! 


LUELLA. 

\£  ATE 'S  at  her  best  in  an  apron, 
Jinny 's  bewitching  by  gas, 

While  Becky,  in  kitchen  or  parlor, 
Is  just  the  ne  plus  of  a  lass  ; 
But  Katie  and  Jinny, 
With  Sadie  and  Minnie 
And  Becky  and  Bella, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 

Deb,  in  the  choir  of  a  Sunday, 

Sings  like  a  bird  in  the  bough  \ 
Brisk  Nan  sits  a  saddle  superbly, 
And  Betty 's  a  charmer,  somehow  ; 
But  Debby  and  Nanny, 
And  Betty  and  Annie, 
And  Edna  and  Stella, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 


LUELLA, 

Fan  is  a  sylph  in  a  bonnet, 

Nett  has  her  dozens  undone  ; 
Grave  Addy  would  madden  Adonis, 
And  Caddy  is  certain  to  stun  ; 
But  Fanny  and  Addy, 
And  Nettie  and  Caddy, 
And  Hetty  and  Delia, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 

Clara — the  turn  of  her  ankle  ; 

Dolly — her  eyes  and  her  smile  ! 
And  where  is  the  match  for  Semantha 
(Unless  it  be  Molly)  in  style  ? 
But  Clara  and  Dolly, 
Semantha  and  Molly, 
And  Esther  and  Eila, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 

Heavens,  what  a  reign  of  all  graces  ! 
Each  is  a  queen  in  her  way  ; 


LUELLA. 


And  turning  it  over  and  over, 
There 's  only  a  word  left  to  say  : 
Give  me  one  and  another 
For  this  and  the  other, 
But,  O,  for  a  "  fellah  "— 
Luella  !  Luella  ! ! 


NATURE  TO  THE  POET. 

TT  chanced,  not  many  years  ago, 

Upon  a  throbbing  morn  in  May, 
Our  Mother  met  a  bard,  I  know, 
And  thus  to  him  did  gravely  say  : 

'  My  little  pallid  son,  I  fear 

You  '11  die  some  years  before  your  time  ; 
They  're  aptest  things — the  tape  and  shear, 
To  kill  the  rhymer  and  his  rhyme. 

'  I  've  told  you  oft  the  tailor  bard 

Is  sure  to  cut  his  own  life'  thread." 
Then  she  put  on  so  very  hard 
I  dare  not  tell  one  half  she  said  : 

1  Young  winds,  and  mother  winds  with  brood 
Deep  in  the  close  of  sober  boughs  ; 


NATURE  TO  THE  POET. 


Old  winds  that  scale,  in  savage  mood, 
The  dizzy  cliffs  where  eagles  house  ; 

'  Those  choristers  that  first  and  last 
Lead  yearly  chorals  of  the  air — 
Bold  singers  of  the  northern  blast, 
Opening  their  throats  in  forests  bare  ; 

'  The  pines  which  sorrow,  unconsoled, 

The  owl  in  darkness  of  the  hill, 
The  rattling  hail  when  nights  are  cold, 
The  ringing  rain  when  winds  are  still ; 

'  The  brook  with  tripping  melody 

To  witch  the  feet  of  slowest  shade  ; 
The  mountain  torrent  dashing  free, 
By  neither  rock  nor  forest  stayed  ; 

'  Those  minstrels  shy  with  singing  wings 
Tuned,  hour  to  hour,  in  tree  and  field- 


NA  TURE  TO  THE  POET. 


The  little  joy  the  moment  brings, 
Their  theme,  in  cunning  lodge  concealed  ; 

"  The  bird  which  weaves  the  light  of  morn 

Into  the  measures  of  his  breast, 
Which  gurgles  back  the  gladness  born 
Of  dancing  leaves  about  the  nest, — 

"  These  singers  use  nor  tape  nor  shear, 

Their  shop  roof  is  the  high,  blue  sky  : 
I  '11  let  you  have  another  year 
To  rid  you  of  the  goose,  and  try." 

This  chanced,  I  've  said,  some  years  ago  ; 

Our  Mother  trounced  him' with  a  will, 
But  somehow — how,  I  do  not  know — 

Her  little  son  is  tailoring  still. 


WHAT   SAY? 

T  T  7ITH  twiddling  quill  we  write,  to-day, 
That  ink  the  page  right  rcchercht ; 

With  kitten  strokes,  light  here  and  there, 

We  urge  the  jingle  debonair, 
The  Frenchy  measurelets  au  fait. 

We  prink  instead  of  think,  we  play — 
We  builders  of  the  little  lay  ; 
We  pink  the  scented  pages  fair 
With  twiddling  quill. 

It 's  very  cruel,  oui,  c'est  vrai, 
To  hint  of  harm  to  hearts  so  gay ; 
But  savez  vous  qtte  sleazy  wear 
Invites  the  time  for  going  bare  ? 
Le  froid—  confound  the  French  ! — let 's  stay 
The  twiddling  quill. 


THE  WISE  PIPER. 

T  1[  7HEN  other  birds  sing  not, 
Rifting  the  drip  of  rain, 
The  sparrow  cheerily 
Pipes  up  his  little  strain. 

The  measure  wayward  is, 

Unstudied,  I  dare  say  ; 
But  very  sweet  to  hear 

Upon  a  rainy  day. 

Fault  with  it  might  be  found 
Were  the  sky  not  quite  so  drear : 

Bless  you  !  he  knows  it  well, 
This  little  piper,  here. — 


THE  WISE  PIPER. 


I  could  a  moral  point, 
But  it  would  hardly  do  : 

Some  ticklish  bardlet— What  ? 
No,  friend,  no  thought  of  you. 


THE  INFORMAL  COURTIER. 

/""*OURTIER,  in  unpretending  dress 

Of  all-excelling  idleness, 
No  liegeman  struts  that  can  outshine 
Me  in  this  good  old  garb  of  mine. 

Young  whirlwinds  alway  ask  me  where 
They  turn  round  dances  in  the  air  ; 
And  I  am  masker  on  the  green 
When  fire-fly  lanterns  light  the  scene. 

The  squirrel,  sharp  in  tooth  and  eye, 
Salutes  me  as  I  saunter  by  ; 
Yes,  ere  the  robin  starts  her  nest 
She  asks  which  bough  I  think  the  best. 

You  11  find  me  hid  with  bats  at  noon, 
Abroad  with  owls  at  rise  of  moon ; 


THE  INFORMAL  COURTIER. 


With  cant'ring  hare  and  sleeky  mole, 
I  am  the  same  congenial  soul. 

I  'm  free  to  count  the  hornet's  rings, 
The  spots  upon  woodpecker  wings  ; 
I  take  the  breezes  by  the  arm, 
And  tramp  at  will  my  neighbor's  farm. 

Courtier,  in  unpretending  dress 
Of  all-excelling  idleness, 
Peerless,  I  serve,  without  a  care, 
Her  Highness  of  the  Open  Air. 


YOU,  TOO. 

13  EE— bee— bee, 

Happy  in  my  apple  blossoms, 
Merry  in  my  cherry  blossoms, 
Happy,  merry  make  you, 
And  no  tree-toad  take  you. 

Bee — bee — bee, 
Busy  in  the  sunny  hours, 
Hidden  in  the  honey  bow'rs, 
When  I  hear  your  singing, 
Then  I  fear  your  stinging. 

Bee — bee — bee, 
Take  my  treasures,  every  one, 
Bring  me  pleasures  never  one, 
To  my  heart  sweets  strike  you  : 
All  the  world  is  like  you. 


TO  A  TIP-UP. 

Q*LIM,  unbalanced  bird, 

A-tip  upon  the  sands, 
Here 's  a  friendly  word, 
A  mental  shaking-hands. 

Ludicrous  enough, 
But  not  more  so  than  I : 
Of  such  teet'ring  stuff 
Is  all  mortality. 

Man,  as  well  as  you, 
Just  bobs  it  on  the  brink  : 
Clap  a  bill  on,  too, 
'T would  twin  us  in  a  wink. 


TO  TREE-CRICKETS. 

i 
"\7OU  little  pulsing  voices  heard 

The  warm,  still  evening  long, 
Must  be  there 's  something,  could  I  catch  it, 
In  so  persistent  song. 


The  ring  is  of  good  legend  gray, 

As  old  as  Adam's  fall  : 
Be  what  it  may,  let 's  have  the  whole  o'  't, 

The  whole,  or  none  at  all. 

A  lusty  tale,  budding  so  well, 

Should  hurry  to  the  blow  ; 
But  you  just  keep  beginning — 'ginning, 

And  will  no  further  go. 


TO  TREE-CRICKETS. 


For  reason  good,  you  choose  the  time 

When  Sol  is  full  of  fire  ; 
I  know  you,  rogues — you  throb  with  passion 

Of  some  wee  heart  desire. 

Fiddle  the  facts  out,  to  the  last ; 

I  '11  stand  by  great  and  small, 
Though  they  out-grizzle  Granther  Adam, 

Poor  Grannam  Eve  and  all. 

Bravo — bravo  !  I  catch  it,  flow  : 
What?  "  Love "  so  long  ago  ! — 

Yes,  /  believe  ;  I  didn't  promise 
For  other  folk,  you  know. 

n. 
Constant  mites  that  briskly  whip 

One  stave  over  and  over, 
How  like  you  are,  a-harping  there, 

The  larger  sort  of  lover  ! 


TO  TREE-CRICKETS. 

Scratch-scratch — scratch-scratch,  all  the  night, 
You  twang  it,  brave  and  cheery  ; 

One  jerky  stave,  the  whole  night  long — 
Just,  Deary — Deary — Deary. 

High  the  moon  rides,  high  and  clear, 

The  filling  dewdrops  glisten  ; 
Thrum,  plucky  lovers  !  well  I  know 

Your  little  ladies  listen. 

Stick  to 't,  wooers  !     So  will  I, 

Nor  ever  slightest  vary 
The  one  sweet  word  of  all  the  world — 

Just,  Mary — Mary — Mary. 


BIRTHDAY  FLOWERS. 

/^\F  those  soul  blossoms  only  found 
Upon  the  poet's  golden  round, 
What  one  will  best  become 
The  mistress  of  my  home  ? 
Some  queenly  rose  of  reason — 
The  rarest  of  the  season, 
Or  lily  fancy  frail  and  white, 
Or  hope  bud  blushing  into  light  ? 

So  pondering,  sought  I  far  and  wide, 
Suing  the  muses  to  decide  ; 
I  searched  love  gardens  thro', 
But  not  a  bloom  would  do. 
Shapes  exquisite  in  fashion, 
Colors  of  chastest  passion, 
Invited  praise  ;  but  none  appeared 
By  quite  the  needful  charm  endeared. 


BIRTHDA  Y  FLOWERS. 


If,  mistress  mine,  I  could  not  find 
The  gift  I  would,  a  heart  so  kind 
Will  see  these  trifles  bear 
My  worship  and  despair  ; 
Will  make  them  hourly  fairer, 
Till  they  be  (to  the  wearer) 
The  tenderest  of  baffled  tho'ts— 
Sweet  little  word  forget-me-nots. 


THE  LOST  SONG. 

T  T  PON  a  summer  day, 

I  sang  a  little  song  ; 
And  something  soft  did  say, — 
"  It  won't,  it  won't  go  wrong." 

I  sang  it  high  and  clear, 
Right  cheery  to  the  last ; 

But  freighted  with  a  tear, 
It  down  the  summer  passed. 

I  sang  it  brave  and  loud, 

The  tear  quenched  not  its  flame : 
T  was  caroled  to  the  crowd 

For  long  applause  of  fame.— 


THE  LOST  SONG. 


Now  many  years  had  gone, 
The  heralds  went  and  came  ; 

Alas  !  it  was  not  on 

The  mighty  winds  of  fame. 

"Well,  let  it  go,"  I  said, 

"The  little  idle  song  ; 
The  tear  was  foolish  shed, 
It  did,  it  did  go  wrong." 

Then,  sweet,  with  love's  own  art, 
A  mother  sang  and  smiled  : 

She  'd  kept  it  in  her  heart 
To  sing  it  to  my  child. 


THE  SONG  UNSUNG. 


/^OULD  I  make  mine  the  native  skill 

Of  wood  and  stream  and  field, 
The  touch  would  not  be  sure  enough 

To  bid  my  silence  yield. 
If  nature  might  not,  how  shall  art 

Indite  the  wary  strain 
That,  all  the  day  and  all  the  night, 

Is  ringing  in  my  brain  ? 

It  is  a  secret  melody, 

A  murmuring  of  tho't  ; 
The  breath  of  gentlest  instrument 

That  woos,  could  win  it  not  : 
At  sound  of  it  the  deftest  hand 

Would  falter  on  the  strings, 
And  Hope  within  the  minstrel's  breast, 

Forever  fold  her  wings. 


THE  SONG  UNSUNG. 


Oft  as  its  measures  rise  and  fall, 

I  think  to  give  it  tongue  ; 
Alas,  it  is  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 

It  never  can  be  sung  ! 
No,  never  yet  was  singer's  voice 

Could  catch  this  spirit  air  ; 
But,  O,  my  heart  so  wondrous  clear 

Hears  every  accent,  there  ! 

Dear  melody  !  were  it  set  free, 

Pleasure  might  turn  to  pain  : 
Perchance  sent  out  upon  the  winds, 

'Twould  not  come  home  again. 
Safely  imprisoned,  may  it  bide, 

And  mute  shall  be  my  tongue. — 
Poor  heart,  you  hear  a  sweeter  song 

Than  ever  bard  has  sung. 


AT  THE  HEARTHSIDE. 

T  T  IS  children  early  laid  away, 

His  hearthside  bright  and  still, 
The  farmer's  frowns  are  all  that  say 
The  day  has  brought  him  ill. 

The  mother  slowly  strokes  her  arms, 
Unsleeved  and  plump  and  fair  ; 

In  vain  you  'd  try  a  hundred  farms, 
To  find  her  equal  there. 

She  softly  nears  the  chimney  nook 
Before  she  ventures  more : 

So  waters  of  a  sunny  brook 
Do  woo  the  moody  shore. 


AT  THE  HEARTHSIDE. 


If  he,  if  he  but  lift  his  face — 
The  hearth  flames  quicken,  spring  ; 

A  yielding  smile,  his  old  embrace, 
And  wife  and  kettle  sing. 


AFTER  THE  COWS. 

'  T  T  IGH  time,  high  time  the  cows  were  home ; 

Will  lingerin'  Jenny  never  come  ?  " 
The  father  stroked  his  grizzly  head  ; 
The  mother,  slowly  sewing,  said, 
"  Put  one  and  one  together  : 
The  bars  slip  hard  in  rainy  weather." 

•  Now,  mother,  do  you  mean  to  say 
We  've  had  a  drop  o'  rain  to-day  ?  " 
A  little  quicker  passed  the  thread, 
As  quietly  good  mother  said, 
"  Put  one  and  one  together: 
The  cows  climb  high  in  sunny  weather." 

'  But  busy  Brindle  with  her  bell, 
(She  knows  the  hour  o'  milkin'  well,) 


AFTER  THE  COWS. 


I  've  often  heerd  her  half  a  mile." 
Good  mother  answered,  with  a  smile, 
"  Put  lad  and  lass  together, 
'Tis  love,  not  cows,  in  any  weather.' 


THE  KITCHEN  CLOCK. 

j^NITTING  is  the  maid  o*  the  kitchen,  Milly, 
Doing  nothing,  sits  the  chore  boy,  Billy  : 
'  Seconds  reckoned, 
Seconds  reckoned  ; 
Every  minute, 
Sixty  in  it. 
Milly,  Billy, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Tick-tock,  tock-tick, 
Nick-knock,  knock-nick, 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock, " — 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 

Closer  to  the  fire  is  rosy  Milly, 
Every  whit  as  close  and  cozy,  Billy  : 
1  Time 's  a-flying, 
Worth  your  trying  ; 


THE  KITCHEN  CLOCK. 


Pretty  Milly— 
Kiss  her,  Billy  ! 
Milly,  Billy, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Tick-tock,  tock-tick, 
Now — now,  quick— quick  ! 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock," — 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 


Something 's  happened  ,  very  red  is  Milly, 
Billy  boy  is  looking  very  silly  : 
' '  Pretty  misses, 
Plenty  kisses  ; 
Make  it  twenty, 
Take  a  plenty. 
Billy,  Milly, 
Milly,  Billy, 
Right-left,  left-right, 
That 's  right,  all  right, 


THE  KITCHEN  CLOCK. 


Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock, " — 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 

Weeks  gone,  still  they  're  sitting,  Milly,  Billy  ; 
O,  the  winter  winds  are  wondrous  chilly  ! 
'  Winter  weather, 
Close  together  ; 
Wouldn't  tarry, 
Better  marry. 
Milly,  Billy, 
Billy,  Milly, 
Two-one,  one-two, 
Don't  wait,  'twon't  do, 
Knockety-nick,  nickety-knock," — 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 

Winters  two  have  gone,  and  where  is  Milly  ? 
Spring  has  come  again,  and  where  is  Billy  ? 
'  Give  me  credit, 
For  I  did  it ; 


THE  KITCHEN  CLOCK. 


Treat  me  kindly, 
Mind  you  wind  me. 
Mister  Billy, 
Mistress  Milly, 
My— O,  O— my, 
By-by,  by-by, 

Nickety-knock,  cradle  rock," — 
Goes  the  kitchen  clock. 


COLLIE   KELSO. 

/~\LD  Sideways,  up  !    You  harrow  your  track 

As  if  every  muscle  had  gone  to  rack  ; 
Ho,  yonder  !  see  that  chuck  on  the  knoll  ? 
Time  was  when  you  cropped  'em  a-top  the  hole. 
Ah,  Collie,  it's  over  ;  you've  had  your  "day"; 
Death  whistles,  and  you  must  hobble  away. — 
Fat  chuck,  you  're  safe  ;  keep  on  end  where  you  are : 
My  Collie  can't  focus  a  barn  so  far. — 
Brown  Blessed ;  he  's  old,  and  it  hurts  my  soul 
To  see  him  blink  tow'rd  the  game  on  the  knoll. — 
Still  a  touch  of  youth  those  old  bones  feel  ! 
Down,  plucky  tyke,  settle  back  to  my  heel ; 
Back,  fellow,  back  !     Death 's  calling,  I  say  ; 
He  whistles  you  off  another  way. — 

The  rhythmic  beating  of  that  tail, 
No  wonder  it,  at  last,  must  fail ; 


COLLIE  KELSO. 


He  thwacks  it  feebler,  less  and  less — 
Spent  pendulum  of  pleasantness. 
The  humor  of  that  postern  motion, 
Answering  exact  each  passion,  notion, 
As  though  two  hearts  took  turn  about — 
One  thump  inside,  and  then  one  out ; 
Pacific  gesture  (Mercy's  plan) 
Betwixt  the  animal  and  man  ! — 
What !     This  the  last  time  I  shall  bless 

His  poor  old  patient  shagginess  ! 

Up,  fellow,  up  !     Kelso,  I  say 

Dead  !    Yes,  the  old  dog  's  had  his  day. 

He 's  happy  in  some  sort  of  heaven  ; 
With  him  that  watched  the -sleepers  sever. 
And  thousand  sainted  Towzers  there, 
He  frisks  it  in  the  fields  of  air. 


GRANNAM  AND  BLUE  EYES. 

"  T  T  OW  many  days  since  you  were  a  child  ?  " 

The  blue-eyed  boy  looked  up  and  smiled- 
"  Grannam,  the  days  since  you  were  a  child  ?  " — 
"  Dear  soul,  I  cannot  tell : 
Would  I  had  lived  them  well." 

"  How  many  months  since  you  were  a  child  ?  " 
He  climbed  her  knee,  and  sweeter  smiled— 
"  Grannam,  the  months  since  you  were  a  child  ?  " 
' '  'Twere  wiser  far  for  me 
To  count  the  few  to  be." 

"  How  many  years  since  you  were  a  child  ?  " 
Blue  as  the  sky  his  eyes,  so  mild— 
"  Grannam,  the  years  since  you  were  a  child?  " — 
"  The  years  are  not  for  me  : 
God  give  a-many  to  thee  ! " 


GRANNAM  AND  BLUE  EYES. 


Soft  did  she  stroke  his  pretty  brown  head, 

But  not  another  word  she  said  ; 

He  waited  long — not  a  word  she  said, 

And  Blue  Eyes  slipt,  once  more, 
To  his  playthings  on  the  floor. 


THE  WIDOW'S  COMFORT. 

S~^  REEN  is  the  grass  upon  the  hill, 

The  wild-flow'r  blossoms  by  the  way  ; 
And  never  ran  the  meadow  rill 
More  lightly  than  it  runs,  to-day : 
But  the  rose-grown  cottage 
'Neath  the  poplars  tall, 
In  the  wide  landscape  is  fairest  of  all. 
There,  a  child  looks  into  his  mother's  face, 
And  wondrous  brightness  fills  the  place, 
As  he  says  for  her  widow's  comfort, — 
"  Mother,  I  have  a  plan  : 
When  I  am  once  a  man, 
I  '11  walk  in  goodly  company, 
And  you  shall  be  a  lady." 


THE  WIDOWS  COMFORT. 


Paler  the  grass  upon  the  hill, 

The  wild-flow'rs  fail  beside  the  way  ; 

And  mournfully  from  wood  and  rill, 

Float  dirges  for  the  summer  day  : 

But  the  lowly  cottage, 

Where  the  sick  boy  lies, 

Still  lends  the  splendors  of  Paradise. 

With  his  last  look  into  the  mother's  face, 

A  fadeless  glory  fills  the  place  ; 

And  he  says  for  her  widow's  comfort, — 
"  Mother,  you'll  come  to  me, 
Wherever  I  may  be, 
Among  the  goodly  company, 
And  you  shall  be  a  lady.' 


SONNETS. 


MUSIC. 

HPAKE  of  the  maiden's  and  the  mother's  sigh, 

Of  childhood's  dream,  and  hope  that  age  doth 

bless, 

Of  roses  and  the  south  wind's  tenderness, 
Of  fir  tree's  shadow,  tint  of  sunset  sky, 
Of  moon  on  meadow  where  the  stream  runs  by, 
Of  lover's  kiss,  his  diffident  caress, 
Of  blue  eyes'  yellow,  brown  eyes'  darker,  tress, 
Of  echoes  from  the  morning  bird  on  high, 
Of  passion  of  all  pulses  of  the  Spring, 
Of  prayer  from  every  death  bed  of  the  Fall* 


Of  joy  and  woe  that  sleep  and  waking  bring, 
Of  tremor  of  each  blood-beat  great  and  small ; 
Now,  pour  into  the  empty  soul  each  thing, 
And  let  His  finger  touch  that  moveth  all. 


II. 
GROWN  OLD  WITH  NATURE. 

T  F  true  there  be  another,  better  land, 

A  fairer  than  this  humble  mother  shore, 

Hoping  to  meet  the  blessed  gone  before, 
I  fain  would  go.  But  may  no  angel  hand 
Lead  on  so  far  along  the  shining  sand, 

So  wide  within  the  everlasting  door, 

Twill  shut  away  this  good,  green  world.    No  more 
Of  Earth  ! — Let  me  not  hear  that  dread  command. 
Then  must  I  mourn,  unsoothed  by  harps  of  gold, 

For  sighing  boughs,  and  birds  of  simple  song, 


For  hush  of  night  within  the  forest  fold  ; 

Yea,  must  bemoan,  amid  the  joyous  throng, 
These  early  loves.     The  heart  that  has  grown  old 

With  Nature  cannot,  happy,  leave  her  long. 

III. 
THE  SKILFUL  LISTENER. 

*~pHE  skilful  listener,  methinks,  may  hear 

The  grass  blades  clash  in  sunny  field  together, 
The  roses  kissing,  and  the  lily,  whether 
It  laugh  or  sigh  low  in  the  summer's  ear, 
The  jewel  dew-bells  of  the  mead  ring  clear 
When  morning 's  nearing  in  the  sweet  June  weather, 
The  flocked  hours  winging,  feather  unto  feather, 
The  last  leaf  wail  at  waning  of  the  year. 
Methinks,  from  these  we  catch  a  passing  song, 
(The  best  of  verities,  perhaps,  but  seem) 
Hearing,  forsooth,  shy  Nature,  on  her  round, 
When  least  she  imagines  it :  birds,  wood,  and  stream 


Not  only,  but  her  silences  profound, 
Surprised  by  softer  footfall  of  our  dream. 

IV. 
DREAMS. 

HTHE  robber  artists  that  in  ambush  wait 

To  follow  in  the  train  of  sleep,  like  wind 
At  evening  ;  ay,  the  color  clan  that  bind 
The  pickets  of  the  mind,  and  take  its  gate 
By  noiseless  storm,  and,  merciless  as  fate, 
Plunder  its  secret  treasure, — what  their  kind, 
Whence  come  they,  how  creep  they  the  heart  behind, 
To  work  of  mirth  and  murther  dedicate  ? 
A  touch,  and,  lo,  the  airy  canvas  glows  ! 
Here,  coming  bliss  ;  there,  woes  of  bygone  years: 
This  scene  too  well  we  know  ;  that,  no  man. knows. 
Confused,  befooled  by  shifting  hopes  and  fears, 
At  last  we  seem  to  grasp —    The  picture  goes, 
Fled  are  the  workers  in  our  smiles  and  tears. 


THE  PARTING  OF  ILMAR  AND  HAADIN. 

T)UT  out  thy  torch,  O  watcher  by  the  dead, 

Unto  the  darkness  give  its  own  ; 
Silence  and  darkness— they  alone 
Must  minister  about  this  breathless  bed  ; 
Put  out  thy  mocking  torch,  good  watcher  gray, 
Thine  old  head  cover  ;  come  away. — 

And  so  I  leave  thee,  Ilmar  !    That  queen  brow 

Where  diamond  light  were  pale  as  mist, 

I  yield  it  up  to  Death,  unkissed. 

He  took  thee  from  me  ;  thou  'rt  his  only,  now  : 

No,  no — I  cannot  lay  on  that  still  hand 

Mine  own,  and  thou  not  understand. 


98       THE  PARTING  OF  ILMAR  AXD  HA  A  DIN. 

Mine  was  no  little  winged  fantasy — 
Gnat- passion  of  a  summer  day, 
I  loved  not  in  the  common  way  ; 
Therefore  must  I  accept  this  misery, 
Must  hug  it  close,  feed  me  upon  its  pain, 
No  more  than  thou  to  smile  again. 

The  spider  can  restore  each  riven  thread, 

The  bee  refill  its  empty  comb  ; 

Alas  !  the  heart's  imperial  home, 

Once  plundered,  goes  for  aye  untenanted. 

Henceforth  I  wander,  homeless,  helpless,  lone, 

Only  my  bitterness  mine  own. 

The  haggard  night,  with  wet,  disheveled  hair, 

On  her  black  path  at  large,  shall  be 

My  mate  ;  the  gesturing  specter- tree 

Shall  reach  his  arms  to  me  through  glitt'ring  air ; 

Friends  will  I  make  where,  with  despairing  roar, 

The  baffled  sea  assaults  the  shore. 


THE  PARTING  OF  ILMAR  AND  HAADIN.      99 

Wan  as  the  bleachen  kerchief  smoothed  around 
Thy  whiter  neck,  the  realm  of  Death 
Shall  be  my  realm  ;  and  my  stopt  breath 
Shall  be  unheard  as  thine  down  in  the  ground. — 
Mine  own  are  deaf  as  that  sweet  sleeper's  ears ; 
Watcher,  why  speak  when  neither  hears  ? — 

Thou  art  so  meek  !    Ah,  why  am  I  not  so 

Because  thou  art  ? — It  cannot  be  : 

My  tameless  blood  increasingly 

Does  heat  me  fierce  as  tiger  crouched  low, 

Hard-spotted  pard,  that,  glancing  back  the  glare 

Of  sun  fire,  dapples  all  the  air. — 

Had  I,  O  wind,  your  liberty,  the  sea 
Should  lift  so  wildly  he  must  spray 
The  shining  azure  Death's  own  gray, 
Put  out  the  splutt'ring  stars,  to  say  for  me 
How  black,  how  cold  is  all  this  world  ! — No,  no  ; 
t  must  be  calm.     Lo,  she  is  so  ! 


TOO     THE  PARTING  OF  ILMAR  AND  HAADIN. 

Quench  thy  poor  torch,  good  watcher.     Death  sleeps 

sound : 

A  candle  cannot  cheat  her  night. 
Do  smiles  strengthen  the  noon  sun's  light? 
And  shall  we  weep  but  to  make  wet  the  ground  ? 
Old  man,  the  gaping  grave — didst  ever  note 
The  swallowed  coffin  choke  his  throat  ? 

I  tell  thee  she  is  Death's— Death's  only,  now  : 
Let  us  be  gone.     Come  !     Haadin's  tear 
Would  be  a  raindrop  on  that  bier, 
His  breath  but  wind  against  that  bloodless  brow. 
Put  out  thy  torch — ay,  thou  hast  done  it.     All 
Is  dark— how  dark !— Ilmar  !— I— fall ! 


LIOLAN 

A  ND  now  the  call  of  "  Liolan  ! " 

Filled  all  the  thronged  hall  of  judgment : 
She  had  sinned  as  woman  can 
With  fear  of  neither  God  nor  man 
Before  her  eyes. — "Summon  two  guardsmen 
For  the  queen's  maid,  Liolan  ! " 

Shorn  of  her  order  robe,  nigh  nude, 
Slow  up  the  long,  wide  aisle  they  led  her. 
Gently  led  the  guardsmen  rude, 
Respectful  sat  the  multitude  : 
Were  she  thrice  guilty,  none  dare  jeer  at 
Such  a  shape  of  womanhood. 

As  stands  the  solitary  pine 

She  stood,  unmoved,  casting  her  shadow. 

Choked,  the  king  saw  each  curved  line 


He  'd  drunk  so  oft  in  costly  wine  ; 

His  minions  gazed  with  strained  eyes  fastened, 

Spelled  by  that  dark  shape  divine. 

Only  the  queen  stared  cold  as  stone, 

Rigid  with  pride,  steel-hard  with  hatred : 

Liolan  had  brought  the  throne 

To  shame,  now  let  her  life  atone 

For  it.     And  this  her  lord  had  promised, 

For  her  honor  and  his  own. 

Ay,  such  the  king's  high  word — to  screen 

The  gray-beard  coward,  not  for  honor  : 

He  himself  with  touch  unclean 

Had  stained  the  favorite  of  his  queen, 

Then  pointed  his  polluted  finger 

At  his  son,  famed  Darragine. 

Her  heart  by  this  young  soldier  won, 
Bitter  was  Liolan's  repentance 
For  the  evil  she  had  done. 


LIOLAN. 


A  sinless  life  but  now  begun, 

Lo,  she  was  called  to  the  hall  of  judgment— 

And  brave  Darragine  was  gone. 

To  death  the  king  doomed  Liolan, 
But  he  must  mask  it  in  compassion  : 
'  Woman,  merciful,  we  plan 
To  spare  thy  life  if  straight  the  man 
That  sinned  with  thee  appear  before  us. 
Bid  him  hither,  Liolan." 

Low  to  the  king  bowed  Liolan, 

Then  slowly  turned  her  toward  the  people  : 

Hear  me  !     More  I  ask  not  than 

This  boon  :  If  I  timely  bring  the  man, 

See  to  it  that  I  go  forth  scathless, 

Not  queen's  maid,  but — Liolan. 

'  Good  people,  meanest  life  is  dear, 
I  know  you  would  not  take  it  lightly. 
Grant  one  word  in  the  king's  ear  ; 
Then,  if  he  bid  it,  instant  here 


LIOLAN. 


Shall  be  the  one  with  me  in  evil." — 
Pleased,  the  king  bade  her  draw  near. 

Lithe  as  the  supple  panther  can, 
The  queen's,  maid  leaned  over  the  monarch, 
When  a  flash  like  lightning  ran 
The  air  through.     "  Look,"  cried  Liolan, 
Holding  on  high  her  studded  dagger, 
"  Gentle  friends,  behold  the  man  ! " 

That  moment  through  the  guarded  door 
Sprang  in  a  band  of  swarthy  troopers, 
Darragine  striding  before : 
"  Your  sabres  !     Strike  him  to  the  floor 
That  lifts  a  hand  ! — Ye  know  me,  comrades ; 
Mark  my  words :  I  say  no  more."  — 

From  out  the  hall  walked  L'iolan, 
While  still  the  guilty  king  lay  bleeding. 
She  had  struck  as  woman  can 
When  stung  by  faithless  lust  of  man  : 
Honor  itself  to  honest  lover, 
Safe  passed  plighted  Liolan. 


NATURE, 
i. 

THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE. 

npHE  songs  of  Nature  never  cease, 
Her  players  sue  not  for  release. 
In  nearer  fields,  on  hills  afar, 
Attendant  her  musicians  are  : 
From  water  brook  or  forest  tree, 
For  aye  comes  gentle  melody, 
The  very  air  is  music  blent — 
An  universal  instrument. 
Beneath  the  voice  of  brook  or  bird, 
There  is  another  nigh  unheard  ; 
Does  sound  a  moment  drop  the  strain, 
Then  silence  takes  it  up  again, 
Still  sweeter — as  a  memory 


NA  TURE. 


Is  sweeter  than  the  things  that  be. 
Pleased  Nature's  heart  is  alway  young, 
Her  golden  harp  is  ever  strung  ; 
Singing  and  playing,  day  to  day, 
She  passes,  happy,  on  her  way. 


II. 
IN  PRIMEVAL  WOOD. 

HPHIS  deep,  primeval  wood — how  still ! 
Lo,  Silence  here  makes  all  his  own  ; 
Veiled  shapes,  with  hands  upon  their  lips, 
Stand  round  about  his  dar-kened  throne. 

The  patient  pleading  of  the  trees — 
How  deep  it  shames  the  soul's  despair ! 
In  supplication  moveless,  mute, 
They  keep  their  attitude  of  prayer. 


III. 

THE  OLD  TREE. 

"\^ON  stricken  monarch — lifeless  form  ! — 

No  longer  scorns  the  winter  storm  ; 
Tempest,  at  last,  and  length  of  days 
Have  mastered  :  lo  !  the  king  decays. 

That  shape  so  pitiful,  once  stood, 
The  Saul  of  his  tall  brotherhood  ; 
From  out  his  boughs,  now  ragged,  sere, 
Rang  blithest  songs  of  all  the  year. 

Time  was  when  gravely  to  his  shade, 
At  noon,  the  lordlier  cattle  strayed  ; 
When  into  his  arms,  at  fall  of  night, 
The  shyest  bird  dropt  from  her  flight. 

Years  since,  I  climbed  that  highest  bough ; 
Only  the  hawk  dare  trust  it,  now. 


NA  TURE. 


Alas  !  I,  too,  was  younger  then  : 
We  go  together,  oaks  and  men. 

How  like  our  own  last  reach  of  pray'r- 
Those  empty  hands  upheld  in  air, 
Our  own  stern  close  with  destiny 
The  struggle  of  the  aged  tree  ! 


IV. 
THE  BEECHES  BRIGHTEN  EARLY  MAY. 

/~pHE  beeches  brighten  early  May, 

And  young  grass  shines  along  her  way  ; 
Now,  Joy  first  bares  his  sunny  head, 
Leaned  over  brook  and  blossom  bed  ; 
The  smell  of  Spring  fills  all  the  air, 
And  wooing  birds  make  music  there. 
Though  naught  of  sound  or  sight  does  grieve, 
From  quiring  morn  to  quiet  eve, 


NA  TURE. 


My  restless  thoughts  are  forward  cast : 
This  loveliness — it  cannot  last. 
The  merry  field,  the  ringing  bough, 
Will  silent  be  as  tuneful  now  ; 
Chill,  warning  winds  will  hither  roam, 
The  Summer's  children  hasten  home  : 
That  blue  solicitude  of  sky 
Bent  over  beauty  doomed  to  die, 
Ere  long  will,  pitying,  witness  here, 
The  yielded  glory  of  the  year. 


V. 
SUMMER  NOON. 

A    SUMMER  noon  is  this, 

The  trees  are  breathless,  every  one  : 
Underneath  the  shadow  is, 
And  overhead  the  sun. 


Alone,  the  butterfly 

Lifts  fitfully  in  lower  air  ; 
While  the  circling  hawk  on  high 

Is  all  that 's  moving  there. 

The  brook — does  it  go  by  ? 

Is  it  the  water  brook,  which  flows  ? 
Tis  more  like  a  line  of  sky, 

So  quietly  it  goes. 


VI. 
TO  A  HUMMING-BIRD. 

"I  T  7ITH  a  whirr  and  with  a  hover, 

Fickle,  spinning  blossom-lover, 
Arab  of  the  golden  air, 
Type  of  all  that 's  fleet  and  fair, 

Incarnate  gem, 

Live  diadem, 


Bird-beam  of  the  summer  day, — 
Whither  on  thy  sunny  way  ? 

Hope  too  high — bid  it  forsake  thee, 
To  her  breast  the  rose  would  take  thee ; 
Loveliest  of  lovely  things, 
Look  on  her,  and  fold  thy  wings  : 
Yea,  take  thy  rest 

Upon  her  breast, 

• 

So  forget  lost  Paradise, 
Star-bird  fallen  from  happy  skies. 

Vanished  ! — Back  I  cannot  call  him, 
Would  not.     Gentlest  fate  befall  him  ! 
Seeking  that  that  is  not  here, 
I  must  follow  him  with  fear — 

Swift  passion-thought 

In  rapture  wrought, 
Plumed  with  azure  and  with  fire 
Of  a  burning  heart's  desire. 


VII. 
MONARCH  OF  THE  NORTH. 

T  TNBARRED,  to-day,  the  arctic  door, 
The  royal  army  marches  forth  ; 

Back  !  angry  blasts  ride  on  before 

The  hoary  Monarch  of  the  North  ! 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  captains  glance, 

From  crest  to  crest,  from  lance  to  lance  ; 

Think  ye  to  move  his  heart  with  prayer, 

This  gray  old  terror  of  the  air  ? 

He  glories  in  the  dying  groan, 

The  shrunken  flesh,  the  staring  bone  ; 

He  gloats  upon  each  pleading  eye 

As  savagely  he  passes  by..  . 

Rouse  !  up  !  it  is  the  warrior's  day, 

Wild  hosts  of  Winter  march  this  way  ! 

Beware— again  the  trumpets  blare  ! 

Lo,  answering  powers  crowd  the  air  ; 


Dread  horde  invisible,  they  drive 
Together,  wrestle,  fiercely  strive, 
In  writhing  masses  downward  leap, 
Down — down  the  helpless  valley  sweep. 
Onward  they  ravage  ;  hark — the  roar 
From  mountain  top  to  ocean  shore ! 
Aha,  who  bars  the  arctic  door, 
Who  shall  oppose  his  marching  forth  ? 
Back — back  !  mad  blasts  ride  on  before 
Wroth  Winter,  Monarch  of  the  North  ! 


VIII. 
ABREAST  WITH  OLD  STORM. 

'  /CROUCH  by  your  cheery  fire, 

Ay,  draw  your  bare  bones  nigher, 
Dwarfed,  shriveled  son  of  a  bloodless  sire ! " 
So  shouts  Old  Storm  with  a  rousing  roar 
As  he  slams  my  door. 


NA  TURE. 


Hold  !    Not  too  fast,  Old  Storm  : 
Rather,  to  keep  me  warm 
I  will  abroad.     Here 's  your  mate,  Old  Storm- 
Ready  !     I  'm  with  you  for  farthest  shore  ; 
Roar,  grim  braggart,  roar  ! 

Out  on  the  frozen  ground, 
Whizzing  from  mound  to  mound, 
I  care  no  whit  to  what  quarter  bound  ; 
In  whirling  leap  to  the  tempest-tide, 
Now  for 't,  side  by  side  ! 

Vaulting  the  mountain's  crown, 
Swooping  the  valley  down  ; 
Among  the  steeples  that  peak  the  town, 
Along  the  rivers,  past  wood  and  plain — 
Storm,  it  is  we  twain  ! 

Felling  the  tall  trees  fast, 

All  to  the  earth  we  11  cast ; 

Men's  houses,  yea,  their  gray  tombs,  at  last. 


Lead  on,  Old  Storm  !    Be  it  chasm  or  steep, 
Tis  as  one  we  leap. 

On  !  for  'twill  soon  be  day, 

Let  there  be  no  delay  ; 

On — on,  Old  Storm,  not  a  moment  stay  ! 

Steer  straight — you  stagger — you  slack  your 

speed ; 
To  your  steps  give  heed. 

Howl ! — why,  your  voice  grows  thin  ! 
March  ! — why,  your  knees  give  in  ! 
Aha,  Old  Storm,  shall  the  weakling  win  ? 
The  earth  and  sea  and  the  air  are  his  : 
'Tis  in  Genesis. 

IX. 
SUNRISE  IN  THE  FOREST. 

THIN  this  wood  from  man  removed, 
The  satyrs,  poised,  with  standing  ears 


NA  TURE. 


Close  listen,  as  in  olden  time  ; 

With  them  all  folk  old  poets  say 

Are  nurtured  'neath  the  forest  leaves. 

Happy  the  heart  here  welcome  made 

By  them,  lapt  in  green  quietude, 

In  cool  maturity  of  shade  : 

Benignant  beings,  best  of  friends 

I  find  these  legendary  shapes, 

Taking  the  likeness  thought  may  please. 

Shy  creatures  !     They  will  leave  me,  now  ; 

Eastward  their  gentle  faces  turn. 

A  breath,  fresh  from  the  heights  of  morn, 

Rouses  the  oak  :  through  all  his  leaves 

A  tremor  runs,  and  waking  birds 

Send  on  the  thrill  from  hill  to  hill, 

In  a  love-burdened  burst  o£  song. 


X. 
EVENING  CLOUDS. 

Q*  LOW,  changeful  shapes,  afar  and  lone, 

Along  the  sea  that  makes  no  moan, 
Like  surf  against  a  voiceless  shore 
The  evening  clouds  roll  up  once  more. 

No  sounds  of  sorrow  or  of  pleasure 
Accompany  that  stately  measure  : 
Remote  and  lone,  they  're  rolling,  white, 
To  land— the  silent  Land  of  Night. 

Along,  along  the  azure  ocean, 
On  and  on  with  mazy  motion, 
Thronging  the  fady  heights  of  day, 
They  take  their  evanescent  way. 


EVENING  SONGS. 
XI. 

T  T  is  that  pale,  delaying  hour 

When  Nature  closes  like  a  flower, 
And  on  the  spirit  hallowed  lies 
The  silence  of  the  earth  and  skies. 

The  world  has  thoughts  she  will  not  own 
When  shades  and  dreams  with  night  have  flown  ; 
Bright  overhead,  the  early  star 
Makes  golden  guesses  what  they  are. 


XII. 


A    LIGHT  lies  here,  a  shadow  there, 
With  little  winds  at  play  between  ; 


NA  TURE~{EVENING    SONGS). 


As  though  the  elves  were  delving  where 
The  sunbeams  vanished  in  the  green. 

The  softest  clouds  are  flocking  white 
Among  faint  stars  with  centres  gold  : 

Slowly  from  daisied  fields  of  night, 
Heaven's  shepherd  fills  his  airy  fold. 


XIII. 

"XT OW  is  Light,  sweet  mother,  down  the  west, 

With  little  Song  against  her  breast : 
She  took  him  up,  all  tired  with  play, 
And  fondly  bore  him  far  away. 

But  his  sister — she  is  singing  still, 
The  merry  Maiden  of  the  Rill : 
She  follows  happy  waters  after, 
Leaving  behind  low,  rippling  laughter. 


NA  TURE— (EVENING  SONGS). 


XIV. 

T)  EHIND  the  hill  top  drops  the  sun, 

The  curled  heat  falters  on  the  sand, 
While  evening's  ushers,  one  by  one, 
Lead  in  the  guests  of  Twilight  Land. 


The  bird  is  silent  overhead, 

Below  the  beast  has  laid  him  down  ; 
Afar  the  marbles  watch  the  dead, 

The  lonely  steeple  guards  the  town. 

The  south  wind  feels  its  amorous  course 
To  cloistered  sweets  in  thickets  found  ; 

The  leaves  obey  its  tender  force, 
And  stir  'twixt  silence  and  a  sound. 


NA  TURE— (EVENING  SONGS"). 


XV. 

'XT'ON  ragged  cliff  looks  gentler  down, 
The  twilight  dims  its  grisly  scars  ; 
Hushed  earth  awaits  that  second  dawn, 
The  morning  of  the  moon  and  stars. 

Far  creeping  clouds — unguarded  flock — 
At  pleasure  rove  the  pathless  sky  ; 

While  watchful  eyes  of  waters  still, 
Look  up  and  count  them,  passing  by. 

Belated  birds  from  paths  of  air, 
Deep  into  closed  boughs  have  gone ; 

Joy's  smallest  minstrels,  all  as  one, 
Alone  their  tireless  pipes  play  on. 

The  nimble  herds  that  take  the  hill, 
The  sober  droves  that  crop  the  dell, 

Worn  beasts  of  toil,  with  creatures  wild, 
In  universal  shadow  dwell. 


I'VE  SEEN  THE  SUN  ON  THE  HILL  TOP, 
THERE. 

T  'VE  seen  the  sun  on  the  hill  top,  there, 
Shine  all  as  bright  in  a  harlot's  hair  ; 
I  've  known  no  midnight  black  as  the  morn 
An  innocent  babe  to  earth  was  born. 


STRIVE  ON,  DOOMED  SOUL. 

OTRIVE  on,  doomed  soul,  cross  the  sword  with 
3     Fate, 

Blind  Time's  award — set  no  store  thereby  ; 
Th'  unclean  may  creep  to  the  Golden  Gate, 

The  saint  plunge,  damned,  from  his  place  on  high. 


THE  BLACK  DAWN. 

T^HERE  was  crying  by  night,  and  the  winds  were 

loud, 

Worn  women  were  working  a  burial  shroud  : 
"She  is  gone,"  they  said  ;  " ay,"  they  said,  "she  is 

gone ! " 
And  the  night  winds  moaned,  and  the  hours  went  on. 

But  the  morrow  dawned  clear  v  and  the  world  shone 

bright, 

No  trace  was  there  left  of  the  dreadful  night : 
"  Nay  ! "  cried  the  lover,  "  the  sun  is  long  gone  f 
How  the  night  winds  sigh  !     Do  the  hours  move 

on?" 


I  NEED  NOT  HEAR. 

T  NEED  not  hear  each  night  wind  loud 

Go  moaning  down  the  wold, 
I  need  not  lift  each  bleachen  shroud 
From  bodies  white  and  cold 

Call  not,  O  naked,  wailing  Fall, 

O  man's  unhappy  race  ! 
One  drifting  leaf— it  tells  me  all, 

Tis  all  in  one  pale  face. 


TO  HOPE. 

A  H,  Hope,  no  more — no  more 

Deceive 

That  my  heart  may  believe  ; 
For  I  know  that  the  flake  will  follow 
On  the  airy  way  of  the  swallow, 
That  the  drift  will  lie  where  the  lily  blows, 
And  the  icicle  hang  from  the  stem  of  the  rose : 
Ah,  Hope — no  more  ! 

Nay,  Hope,  once  more — once  more 

Beguile 

With  thine  olden  smite; 
Though  I  know  that  the  flake  must  follow 
On  the  airy  way  of  the  swallow, 
That  the  drift  must  lie  where  the  lily  blows, 
And  the  icicle  hang  from  the  stem  of  the  rose  : 
Ah,  Hope — once  more  ! 


TO  THE  FALL  WIND. 

HP  HAT  I  might  borrow  thy  voice,  Fall  Wind, 
To  sing  the  sorrow  of  human  kind  ; 
To  speak  for  speechless  tears, 
For  the  hopes  and  fears 
Of  the  wearisome  years  ! 

That  I  might  borrow  thy  voice,  Fall  Wind, 

To  sing  the  sorrow  of  human  kind  : 

Fall  Wind,  thy  voice  to  grieve 
For  the  hopes  that  deceive 
And  the  hearts  that  believe  ! 


ONE. 

/~~\NE  day  is  gladdest  of  the  year, 

One  loveliest  when  shadows  near ; 
One  cloud  floats  softest,  lone  and  high, 
One  star  is  brightest  of  the  sky. 

One  glory,  when  the  winds  are  still, 
Gleams  keenest  on  the  wintry  hill ; 
One  whitest  lily,  reddest  rose — 
None  other  such  the  summer  knows. 

Once  come  and  gone — the  one  dear  face, 
Forever  empty  is  its  place  ; 
But  one  far  voice  the  lover  hears, 
Sounding  across  the  waste  of  years. 


TO  ALICE. 


/""^\NE  lived  whose  wont  it  was,  at  eventide, 

To  lean  upon  a  hoar  rock's  lichened  side  ; 
There  would  she  heed,  not  nature's  voices  clear, 
But  those  beyond  the  hearing  of  the  ear. 

Her  steadfast  eyes  looked  softness  through  the  vasf, 
Like  moonlight  in  deep  forest — lost,  at  last ; 
She  leaned :  no  thought  can  stiller  be, 
Not  dream  itself  can  rest  more  dreamingly. 

Hearts  are  that  open  only  to  some  high, 
Pure  realm,  as  blossoms  open  to  the  sky : 
Such  heart  was  hers.     She  came,  and  passed  away 
As  goes  th£  light  at  dying  of  the  day. 


TO  ALICE. 


She  came  and  went,  but  in  the  sun  and  wind 
Left  faithfulest  remembrancers  behind  : 
There 's  something  of  her  in  each  breeze  that  blows, 
Each  color-change  from  April  to  the  snows. 


II. 

T  OY,  bringing  roses,  found  thee, 
J      With  fairest  flowers  crowned  thee  ; 
He  promised  all  a  lover  may  : 
Thou  sentest  him  away. 

Sorrow  no  less  admired  thee, 
For  his  dark  breast  desired  thee  ; 
He  came  with  gift  of  great  domain— 
Alone,  went  back  again. 

Time  in  his  triumph  sought  thee, 
His  rarest  offerings  brought  thee  ; 


He  vowed  to  love  thee  aye  and  aye  : 
Still  thou  didst  answer,  "Nay." 

Death,  last,  did  wiser  woo  thee  ; 
He  whispered  softly  to  thee, 
'  Grief  goeth,  Joy  and  Time  wax  dim  ! ' 
Thou  gavest  thyself  to  him. 


w 


III. 

HEN  Death  approached  thee,  Alice, 
Life  smote  the  olden  foe  ; 


But  when  he  kissed  thee,  Alice, 
And  thou  didst  answer  low, 

To  his  great  love  she  yielded, 
And,  weeping,  let  thee  go. 


TO  ALICE. 


IV. 

TV  yf  OURNFUL  Voice,  haunting  the  quiet  air, 

What  the  burden  of  thy  long  despair  ? 
What  the  whispered  mystery  of  grief 
Trembling  ever  on  the  summer  leaf  ? 


Sadder  far  than  any  song  of  tears, 
Whose  the  music  that  my  lone  heart  hears  ? 
Wandering  Sorrow,  come  and  take  thy  rest ; 
Thou  art  welcome  to  mine  empty  breast. 

—Oh,  the  passion  breathed  against  my  brow  : 
Human  is  this  touch  ! — I  know  thee,  now  : 
Thou  dost  bring  me  kisses  Alice  gave, 
Reached  thro*  quickened  grasses  on  her  grave. 


V. 

HPHE  years  are  seven 

Since  by  brook  and  wood 
We  wandered,  or  in  rapture  stood  ; 
She,  my  own, 
With  my  heart  ingrown, 
My  love  and  I,  her  lover, 
Beneath  night's  kindly  cover  : 
Yea,  the  years  are  seven 
Since  we  watched  for  the  stars  of  heaven. 

The  years  are  seven  ; 

And,  O  traitor  years  ! 

We,  fearing,  trusted  still,  with  tears, 

Where  is  she 

That  was  all  to  me  ? — 

Beneath  th'  unlifted  cover. 

Lo,  night  to  night  goes  over — 


Are  the  years  but  seven 

That  have  stricken  the  stars  from  heaven  ! 


VI. 

"  1\I OT  her>"  cried  Life  '  "  Alice  is  mine  ": 

Gray    Death   smiled  faintly, — "No,   not 

thine." 

And  is  Life  strong  ?    Yea,  but  Death  stronger : 
Soon  they  strove  no  longer. 

Then  Life  fell  weeping  bitterly, 
So  sorely  Death,  pitying,  drew  nigh  ; 
And,  now,  they  sit  in  sunny  weather, 
By  thy  grave  together. 

Ay,  Life  and  Death  close  friends  have  grown 
Since  thou  didst  die.     I  am  alone  ; 
With  Life,  with  Death,  I  have  no  part. — 
Oh,  my  heart— my  heart ! 


SONG  OF  THE  SLEEPERS. 

npHE  mold  is  our  mother ; 

She  trusts  no  other. 
Life  must  lay  down 
Both  robe  and  crown  ; 
Naught  can  keep 
The  fairest  from  sleep  ; 
His  labors  shall  close, 
And  the  toiler  repose. 

The  mold  is  our  mother  ; 
We  have  no  other. 
All  lips  shall  be  sealed, 
The  old  hurts  healed  ; 
On  the  mother's  breast 
Shall  her  children  rest. 


i36  SONG  OF  THE  SLEEPERS. 

As  the  day  is  bright, 

So  dark  the  night. 

A  glowing,  a  gloom, 

The  cradle,  the  tomb, 

Tis  to  come  and  go 

Like  the  summer,  the  snow  ; 

Remembered,  forgot, 

We  are — and  are  not. 

The  mold  is  our  mother, 
More  kind  than  another  : 
With  the  gift  of  years 
For  smiling  and  tears, 
Is  a  better,  she  saith — 
The  blessing  of  death. 

Set  the  font  by  the  urn  ; 
For  the  given  return. 
The  fairest  we  know, 
Has  her  bed  below, 


SONG  OF  THE  SLEEPERS. 


And  the  daughter  of  care 
Finds  quiet  there. 

We  may  laugh  or  may  weep, 
We  have  waked  and  must  sleep  ; 
The  young  and  the  old 
In  the  mother  mold, 
The  blamed  and  the  blest 
On  the  mother  breast. 


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The  Publishers'  Weekly 


Obituary 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY,  the  California  poet, 
died  at  'his  home  in  San  Diego  on  May  ist. 
He  was  born  December  29th,  1848,  and  in  early 
life  practiced  law  in  New  York  City.  He 
was  appointed  librarian  of  the  San  Francisco 
Public  Library  in  1887  and  was  there  for  seven 
years,  going  thence  to  the  Newberry  Library, 
Chicago,  where  he  remained  five  years.  He  was 
the  author  of  the  following  books :  ''The  Old 
Doctor"  (1881;  "Thistle  Drift"  (1887)  ;  "Wood 
Blooms"  (1888)  ;  "The  Golden  Guess"  (essays, 
1892)  ;  "That  Dome  in  Air"  (essays,  1895)  ; 
"Queen  Helen"  (1895);  "Out  of  the  Silence" 
(1897)  ;  "Lyrics"  (1901)  ;  "The  Time  of  Roses" 
(1908)  ;  and  "At  the  Silver  Gate"  (1911)- 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


10m-8,'32 


SBA 


I  .OS 


;RN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


B    000012978    3 


PS 

1292 
C4t 


:/ 
o  ®S\  (i 


